


The Gautier Emporium

by sideoftea (orphan_account)



Series: DimiClaude Week 2020 [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Claumitri, Dialogue Heavy, Dimiclaude Week (Fire Emblem), Fluff, Jazz Age, M/M, Modern AU, New York City, One Shot, POV Third Person, dance, dimiclaude, prompt, speakeasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:06:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22102291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sideoftea
Summary: Sir Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, an English nobleman, has recently moved to New York City in an attempt to escape his controlling family and begin a new life for himself. In a turn of events, he stumbles upon an underground speakeasy where he meets a flirty bartender, a charming songstress, a moody pianist, and an alluring jazz musician.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Series: DimiClaude Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1589980
Comments: 12
Kudos: 48





	The Gautier Emporium

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 2 of DimiClaude Week 2020!
> 
> Prompt: Modern/Dance
> 
> Type: Modern AU set in the New York City underground bar-scene of the 1940s.
> 
> Rated Teen and Up (alcohol use, tobacco use, and sexual innuendo)

The Gautier Emporium. A therapeutic little place where patrons were all on the same playing field. A humble joint, where candle wax dripped with the satisfaction of unfulfilled dreams, and the harsh brass of saxophone solos ricocheted against pinewood rafters, rotting and magnificent. The handsome bartender dispensed drinks with a flourish, the creamy foam that topped pints of ale, seeping over their glasses, staining the glossy countertop. He had high, cutting cheekbones, likely able to replace the cheese knives if necessary. Patrons leaned against the lingering high-tables, clinking cups together in toasts of merriment.

The hammers of a slightly out-of-tune piano plunked a jaunty vibrato, the kind of tone that was quiet, but layered highly against eardrums over the drone of conversation. A saxophone player crooned morosely, the instrument’s reverb echoing with raw, salivated breath. Next to him, a beautiful woman, probably a singer, powdered her face, causing whimsical white puffs of white to dance around them. Gentlemen, adorned in white gloves, caressed their respective lover’s lower back, whipping them around to the syncopated beat of a swing, their partners laughing breathlessly and delightfully. The lucky women, dressed in lavish evening gowns, some accented with sparkling fringe or pearls, followed the nonverbal commands of the dance, spinning about as gracefully as possible under the inhibition of red wine. Some of the younger gentlemen actually opted to dance with other men, the rules of the underground speakeasy opposing the rules of a hesitant, restrictive modern society that buzzed merely ten feet above them. 

Here, no one paid no mind to one another; as long as you were here to enjoy yourself and not bother anybody, nobody would bother you. This was the bartender’s vision, and he mentally indulged in the free affairs that surrounded him while cleaning up a couple of wine goblets that were shattered unceremoniously just a few minutes prior. A chorus of beauties proceeded to dote on him, singing high praises of his hospitality, with a few of the girls ducking out of the conversation early, giggling madly as they stumbled to the restroom, drawing back a curtain to privatize their lewd activities. A young man dabbed a handkerchief to his blonde hairline, clearly overwhelmed by the plethora of vices that assaulted his vision.

“Ya alright there, pal? Yer lookin’ a little green around the gills.”

“Oh yes. I’m quite alright. It’s my first time here, you see.”

“Fresh meat, huh? Well, make yerself at home! Everyone’s a friend here.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“What can I get ya?”

“A whiskey. Over ice if you please.”

“Amber swimmin’ in the Rockies. Comein’ right up.”

“Much obliged. Can I ask your name?”

“They call me Sylvain. Owner, bartender, and distinguished lover,” he chided, shooting a wink, much to the young blonde’s simultaneous surprise and attraction. “Ah, don’t get yer feathers all ruffled. Loosen’ up. Ain’t no one out to get ya in here.”

“I must say, Americans are a little, if I may... off their trolley?”

“Eh, not a lot of the men upstairs. Too straight-laced. Down here’s the sewers of the city. And we’re the rats. Charmin’ rats. But still rats.”

“I find it refreshing, actually.”

“Then you’ll fit right in,” Sylvain cooed, sliding the blonde youth his drink with impressive dexterity, “It doesn’t take a brainiac to tell yer from across the pond. What brings ya here?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I gots nowhere else to be.” 

The young blonde looked around, ensuring there were no prying ears in the premises. Was there an actual threat? Probably not. But the anxiety remained. “My name is Dimitri. I’m looking to begin a new life, to put it simply.”

“Sure, lotta people chasin’ their dreams in this city.”

“No I… back home I’m an heir. My family’s of royal blood.”

“Wait. Lemme get this right… yer a prince!?”

“It’s a bit dodgy, I know. Needless to say, it’s not the life I wish.”

“Impressive. But don’t expect me to be callin’ you ‘yer highness’ and such.”

“Please. I’d much prefer if you didn’t.”

“Heh. I gotta say, it takes some moxie to leave an’ never look back like that.”

“If I stayed, I would be doomed to spend my days with some bloody old hag who that my parents deemed best suited to carry forth our family’s lineage,” Dimitri looked up at the bartender’s ambiguous expression, “I apologize for being crude of speech.”

“Pft. That’s what ya call crude of speech? Ya Brits are more tightly wound than a fishin’ rod.” 

“You’re a smarmy one, aren’t you?”

“Never heard that one, but I got an idea of what ya mean,” Sylvain smirked in a way that said the larger part of him was proud. “Seems to me that yer a pretty intuitive fella. How did you find this place anyhow?”

Dimitri cast his gaze over to Dorothea, the brunette beauty and songstress of the cabaret show, with hair that fell over her shoulders like melted chocolate, and eyes elegant, yet deprived of their ability to love. She had made way to the stage a few minutes prior, and was in the middle of a lethargic, alto verse of the band’s opening number. “I have that lass to thank.”

“Plunged into that territory already, did ya? Europeans make quick work.”

“Don’t be daft, it was nothing of that sort! Back at the docks some bloke was giving her a hard time, so I intervened. I wasn’t looking for a scrap, but, let’s just say I had to do a little persuading.”

“Ya don’t look scuffed up.”

“I may not seem’ it, but I can take a punch.”

“Not tryna’ be rude, but color me skeptical.”

“Want to press your luck? Be my guest. I’ll even let you take the first swing,” Dimitri boasted, grinning wildly, opening his arms and stance for the first time since he wandered into the speakeasy.

“I like this one!” Sylvain snickered, creasing forming at the corners of his eyes, “He’s got some fight in ‘em yet. Here, the next one’s on me.”

“I appreciate it mate. Cheers.”

The first song reached its conclusion, to the whoops of drunken, aroused gentlemen. Dorothea blew them a kiss, sauntering offstage, effortlessly dodging the many hands that grabbed at her and approached the bar. “Yoohoo! Mister Gautier! Get me the usual.”

“Comin’ right up suga’.”

“I hope yer treatin’ my friend here with some respect,” purred Dorothea, draping her hand over the blonde’s shoulder, meticulously tracing his collarbone with her index finger.

“Wouldn’t dream of doin’ otherwise.”

“Ya better not,” she turned to Dimitri, “Sylvain’s a well-meanin’ guy, but he could stand to learn a few manners from someone like you.”

“Watch it toots,” Sylvain warned, half-seriously.

“After all,” Dorothea continued, ignoring him, “Most fellas wouldn’t stick up for the likes of me.”

“Oh, bollocks,” Dimitri blushed, “I just did what any chap with a heart would do.”

“Aw, yer precious. But it’s rougher ‘round here compared to those castles and such you’re probably used to.”

“Ah, but that’s what I like about this place. It’s much more interesting than sitting on my arse all day long talking to old buggers over tea.”

Dorothea couldn’t stifle a giggle that formed behind her teeth, “I can’t understand half the words yer sayin’, but it sure is entertainin’.”

“Pleased to be of service,” Dimitri remarked, tipping his glass towards her freshly-served one.

“Why dontcha’ come meet the boys of the band? Just for kicks.” 

She led him towards the stage by the hand, Sylvain waving them off and turning his attention to a couple other guests. Men that lounged in the semi-private booths and cabaret tables glared daggers of envy at Dimitri, the latter feeling so bold as to raise his eyebrows at a few of them. Dorothea sat him down on a sublime seat positioned to the left of the stage. As she whirled back towards the microphone to begin the second song, he traded glances with the band’s saxophone players. The man, like Dimitri, seemed to be in his early to mid-twenties, and had the analytical eyes of a professor, offset by his otherwise lackadaisical demeanor. He quickly surveyed Dimitri, casting his eyes up and down before flashing a mysterious grin. Perhaps it was the buzz of liquor hypnotizing him, but throughout the second number he rarely observed Dorothea or the masterful pianist, his attention favoring the unpredictable harmonies of the cunning jazz musician. 

The band’s second number concluded, this time met with a more thunderous applause, elicited by a mix of the song being a bit more lively and the cabaret patrons being a bit more inebriated. Dorothea gave a saucy little curtsey before crossing back over to Dimitri’s vicinity, one hand still grasping her drink. Her free hand lovingly met the shoulders of the saxist, and she eagerly fell into his lap, forcing the musician to quickly reposition his instrument away from being crushed and place a friendly hand around her waist. 

“So, whaddya think?”

“Positively brilliant,” Dimitri commented, over-emphasizing his accent and golf-clapping for comedic effect.

“Yer such a hoot!” Dorothea threw her head back in laughter. “Dimitri, I’d like to introduce ya to our sax player. This here’s Claude.”

“Pleased to meet ya.”

Dimitri gingerly shook Claude’s free hand. “Pleasure’s mine.”

“Claude’s the best musician on this side of the isle! A real casanova too, sent straight from the heavens, all packaged up with a neat little bow.” 

“Ah, ya flatter me.”

“Oh. Are the two of you… wed?” Dimitri interjected.

“Heavens no!” Dorothea snorted, “Claude’s a bit of a swish, ya see.”

“Dee!”

“Oh don’t be sore, ya know we love ya all the same.” She ruffled the tufts of dark hair that poked out from under his newsie cap, his eyes darting away from Dimitri in embarrassment. “Anywho, over there on the piano is Hubert. Call ‘em Hubie. He’s not much fer words.”

Dimitri gave a small wave in the pianist’s direction, the brooding man returned it and mouthed a reluctant, “Charmed.”

“You have a marvelous crew,” Dimitri beamed, causing Claude to perk back up. Dorothea looked her new friend over in amusement.

“Wouldja get a load of that! The hotshot from England is impressed by our little get-up.”

“I’m eager to hear more!”

“Don’t worry yer handsome face, you will. But first, I gotta catch up with some of my boys.” 

Before the other two could even respond, she bolted off Claude’s lap and flaunted towards one of the front tables where two older gentlemen with kind faces raised their glass in her direction. 

“Such a charming young bird. How’d she end up here anyway?” Dimitri mused.

Claude eyebrows jerked upwards in shared bewilderment. “That’s above my pay grade.”

“Pardon?”

“Yer guess is as good as mine.”

They locked eyes again, Dimitri feeling a similar heat to the one he had when he first walked into the establishment. “Well, I can guess where your expertise does lie. If I may, you are quite talented at the horn.”

“That’s mighty kind of ya to say mister,” Claude drew out a couple cigarettes from his shirt pocket, offering Dimitri one that was accepted graciously, “My pops taught me.”

“How long have you played?”

Claude blew out a puff of smoke, tapping his chin while looking to the ceiling for answers, “Hm. ‘Bout six years or so... I think?

“Very savvy then. What do you like about it most?”

“Playin’?” Dimitri nodded. “I ‘spose it lets me speak in a way words never could.”

“Ah, like a poem?”

“Kinda. But it doesn’t have a language. It’s more accessible.”

“How do you mean?”

“Ya just tryna grill me over here?” Claude narrowed his eyes skeptically.

“I’m positively curious!” Dimitri announced, giddy as a school boy. He took a drag of his cigarette in anticipation.

“Yer a funny one,” Claude observed, placing a hand on his neck. His easy smile returned, persuaded by Dimitri’s innocent genuity. “I’ll put it like this. Not everyone in the world’s gonna understand you or me talkin’ right now. But music. Anyone can listen to that and feel some type of way ‘bout it. That’s the magic.” 

Dimitri’s eyes shone brilliantly, enthralled by Claude’s answer. The musician tilted his head curiously, still scrutinizing over every possible detail he could about this foreigner, but yet, he felt comfortable in his presence. Finishing her brief conversation, Dorothea marched back to their vicinity, nonverbally cueing Claude and Hubert that she was ready for their next set. 

“Hope ya plan on stayin’ fer a spell,” Claude asided before snuffing out his cigarette and blowing out a few warm-up notes on his instrument.

“Are you kidding? I’m chuffed to have a seat this good,” Dimitri crooned, allowing himself to grow more relaxed in front of the new company. Claude offered a wink of appreciation before slipping into a loud, brassy melody. This time, the band performed a few songs in succession before breaking, each growing more lively than the last. The speakeasy had reached a pinnacle of activity, with fairly large droves of people bouncing across the dance floor, and Sylvain pouring out drinks in record time. Dorothea sang with a prowess that proved she could have been a nationally-renowned singer had she been dealt better cards. Hubert plunked out notes on the piano with surprising precision despite the free-form genre of music. And Claude. Well listening to him play was like watching a talented painter effortlessly bring a canvas to life. 

The set dragged to an energetic end, with several points tricking folks into thinking they were wrapping up, only to be delighted with an encore. Eventually Claude’s saxophone fizzled out, and Hubert calmed to a serenade befitting of a hotel lobby. Dorothea spoke to the patrons with a voice like melted butter. “Thank ya. Thank ya. It’s always an honor to play for the esteemed patrons of The Gautier Emporium. We’re gonna take five, but dontchu fret. We’ll be back in a jiffy. The night’s still young!”

“Intermission already? What am I even payin’ ya for?” Sylvain yelled from across the bar to the delight of the crowd as they roared with laughter.

“Ay! Don’t make me come bust yer chops, loverboy!” Dorothea teased back, the remark being met with cheers and whistles. She graciously accepted the hand of a gentleman who helped lower her from the stage and spun her into a slower, sort of waltz. The patrons, turned their attention back to boisterous conversations, booming laughter filled all ears in the room. 

Claude made a slight motion towards Dimitri. “Oi, ya wanna see more of the place?”

“I’d love to take a gander!” Claude smirked, suavely moving across the stage and leaning his instrument against Hubert’s piano, entrusting him with it. Hubert gave him a quick nod without turning away from the keys, giving Claude the go ahead to lead Dimitri away by the hand. The Brit was flabbergasted by how the worn, calloused hands of the musician managed to feel so soft at the same time.

“This ‘ere’s one of them private rooms. Usually Gautier rents them out to wealthy old geezers for playin’ gin in the company of younger dames. But a perk of bein’ part of the band means the door’s always open to us,” Claude narrated. Dimitri was only half-listening however, completely astounded by the room they had entered. Sure, the rest of the bar had its charm, but it was rough around the edges. This rooms were downright artisnel. The panels on the wall seemed handcrafted and gold, ornate candelabras lined a long, silver-topped table. 

“My. How does he afford this?”

“Dealin’ in life’s pleasures is a steady business.”

Dimitri moved to respond, but no words fell out of his mouth. Instead his face twisted into raucous laughter. “Well said ole’ chum!”

Claude’s face flickered with flattery, before returning to his more unreadable, mischievous look. “Ya seem to be gettin’ used to it here.”

“I feel welcome.”

“Ya sure yer not some cop waitin’ for the right moment to call his buddies to come smoke us out?”

“Oh, sod off. Do I really seem that trite?”

“Ya tell me! Fer all I know, ya could just be some fuddy-duddy who got lost in the middle of a bender.”

“So accusatory! If you’re worried, perhaps you should find out for yourself?” 

Claude’s face danced with enthusiasm, “Ah, a challenge!”

“Try me! In turn, I ask to know more of who you are.”

“I’m ‘fraid I won’t be spewing my guts out no more tonight.”

“Fair. But don’t assume you’re off the hook so easily.”

“Hate to break it to ya, sweetheart, but I’m a tough nut to crack.”

“Twenty pence I’ll know your secrets by the end of the week.”

“Pennies from heaven. Ya probably gonna run out of gas in two days time.”

“You underestimate me Master Claude.”

“Pft. No need fer formalities like that, fancy boy. I’m a nobody.”

“I disagree,” Dimitri stated, abruptly changing the playful tone of the conversation. He took Claude’s jaw in his hand. The musician, though hesitant, consented. “You have a lot to offer. A thoughtful mind, enviable talent, and not to mention, kind eyes.”

Claude exhaled sharply and defensively, “Practicin’ yer speech for all the gals later?”

“Nothing of the sort. I daresay, I’d much rather stay here and talk to you.”

“Heh. Well, yer sweet talk’s not gonna work on me.”

“Who said anything about sweet talk? I mean every word.”

“Hmph,” Claude averted his eyes, sighing. He was impressed by Dimitri’s warmth, albeit a bit frustrated. “Fine, I’ll give. Ya win this round, Dima. But don’t get used to it.”

Dimitri burst out into laughter, “Dima?!”

“Well, if yer gonna stick around here, yer gonna need a nickname. I’m not gonna be callin’ ya ‘Sir Dimitri’ just to satisfy that big head of yers.”

“Alright. Dima it is,” Dimitri accepted, admiring the piano music that wafted through the door. Hubert had picked up the tempo to an eccentric ragtime.

“Come ‘ere, let me teach ya how we dance in Manhattan,” Claude winked, his tension beginning to subside.

“I’d be honored.” 

Their hands met, Claude soothingly tracing Dimitri’s palm with his thumb. The musician wrapped his free arm around Dimitri’s waist, pulling him close, as the Englishman barely stifled a gasp at the sudden action. Claude didn’t hesitant to launch into a quick pace, guiding his partner around the room at dizzying speed. Dimitri was physically overwhelmed, but was determined not to give up, as this new fellow had a way of drawing out his competitive side. The dance was not graceful nor particularly impressive, but it was quintessentially them. Once Dimitri was entirely winded, he stumbled forward, leaning his tall frame on Claude’s shoulders, giggling endearingly.

“What’s this? Done already?” 

“I admit. When it comes to dancing, you have my goose cooked.”

“More fun than those crummy ballroom dances ya learned growin’ up, ain’t it?”

“Indeed,” Dimitri breathed, picking himself back up, noticing Claude staring at him like he was a sky full of stars. He found his fingers running instinctively through Claude’s hair, noting that his hat must had fallen off during their dance routine. 

Perhaps it was the liquor flowing through his veins. Perhaps it was the tenacious thrill of being in an unfamiliar place. He barely knew the guy, but it didn’t matter. Holding onto Claude this way felt so right. He felt wanted. He felt dizzy. He felt alive. He felt a hand caress his hip. And, most of all, he felt earnest lips press against his.

After a moment, they gently pulled away, taking a break for air. Dimitri’s eyes fluttered open, remaining fixated on Claude’s lips. “Ah, blimey!”

“Wowza.”

“P-pardon my manners. I’m not sure what came over me.”

“Hey. It’s not like I’m complainin’,” Claude smiled, even more confidently than usual. 

Dimitri snickered a mixture of relief and arousal. This time he clasped Claude’s face into both of his hands, catching the musician a bit off-guard. They leaned into an even closer kiss, allowing the rest of the world to melt around them. They didn’t even notice the door to the private room being creaked open by the likes of Sylvain and Dorothea. 

“Would ya look at that.” Sylvain muttered.

“Called it. Pony up,” Dorothea commanded, holding out an eager palm to the sound of coins jingling in the bartender’s pocket.

“I coulda sworn he was gunnin’ for ya…”

“Heya lovebirds! Sorry to interrupt, but we gotta show to finish.”

Claude and Dimitri awkwardly fell apart, the latter nearly stumbling over a loose chair from being greatly startled. The other simply froze, his green eyes, quite striking against his reddened cheeks, staring dreamily into space.

“Be right there, Dee!” Claude exclaimed, directing a wink towards a flustered Dimitri before following Sylvain back to the main event. Dorothea lingered in the doorway a moment, coyly looking at her nails as she spoke.

“How’s that fer a first night in America?”

“I-I… there are no words,” Dimitri blanked, trying to regain his composure.

“My buddy turned ya into a cold fish, eh?”

“He’s bloody mesmerizing.”

“Ya better not break his heart, ya hear?” Dorothea threatened, friendly, yet serious.

“On my mother’s grave,” piped Dimitri, throwing his hands up in surrender. 

“That’s what I like to hear.” Dorothea crossed to him, pecking him on the cheek. “Alrighty, let’s get ya back to the party.”

They returned to the stage, the numbers of patrons had thinned out a bit, but the place was still hot fire. Sylvain, taking a break from handing out drinks, stood towards the back of the crowd with Dimitri as the band played. He slung his arm around Dimitri’s shoulder, clapping him on the back.

“Lookin’ forward to havin’ ya around more often!”

Dimitri, nodded graciously at him, still giddy from the many activities of his first visit. Dorothea continued to sing her heart out, completely in her element. Even Hubert donned a bit of a smile as he masterfully kept up with her. Claude played more on his own accord, as he always did, but very much in a way that accented and enhanced the band entirely. His eyes met Dimitri’s several times throughout the rest of the evening, ensuring the Englishman knew he was the inspiration for much of that night’s performance.

Steadily, the festivities drew to a close, with the band ending more delicately on a couple of crooner songs. Patrons began to filter out, being careful not to draw too much attention from the public eyes of the street while doing so. After a quick post-music social hour, Sylvain closed up shop, thankful for Dimitri’s assistance with escorting a couple rowdy gentleman who didn’t want to leave. He invited the crew back to his nearby apartment so they may spend the evening in safe company. After locking up the club, they started the few blocks down a dim stretch of sidewalk illuminated by the dull orange lamplight that lined the streets.

A few snowflakes were dancing directly overhead, the large fluffy ones nestling into several heads of hair. The little sky presents made themselves at home, decorating the group like pepper. Sylvain and Dorothea led the way, eagerly discussing plans for the speakeasy’s upcoming events. Hubert stayed relatively close behind them, seeming at ease with walking through the darkness. Dimitri and Claude lingered, the musician clutching to his saxophone and shivering at the sensation of cold brass adhering to his skin. Upon noticing, Dimitri was quick to pull Claude into his oversized coat, who let out an appreciative hum. 

At Sylvain’s, the friends listened to records under the haze of tobacco smoke. They shared several stories, mostly in an effort to help Dimitri learn more about the others. In turn, the newcomer offered some valuable insight of his upbringing, informing them of conventions of a culture they were less familiar. They played conversational tennis until their eyes glazed over and their voices grew hoarse. Content with the prospect of making more memories, they each passed out one-by-one. 

The last to retire was Dimitri, still running a bit on the adrenaline of diving so quickly into a brand-new experience. He lay back on the couch, staring up at shadows casted by a few candles flickering against the ceiling. Claude was snoring ever-so-slightly against Dimitri’s chest, lulled to sleep by the feeling of gentle fingers grazing through his hair. Eventually, Claude’s secure, weighted warmth persuaded Dimitri to finally doze off as well, as the music from the record player dissolved into complete static.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a play I was in once that was set in 1940s NYC. Also a bit of callback to my first piece I posted on here. (Waltzing by the Pond)
> 
> Most of the time spent working on this fic was researching/recalling 1940s slang and British colloquialisms. Fingers crossed that it paid off and the dialogue sounds at least somewhat authentic. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! <3
> 
> Feel free to follow me on Twitter: @PerfectTeatime_


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